“And no one ever did.” Florence laughed gaily, happy for the other’s sake.
The final chapter to this little mystery was, if anything, stranger, more happy than all the rest. Both Mary and her mother had always loved fine and truly rare china. Massive copper pots and pans had always fascinated them as well.
That night, as supper time approached, Madam Chicaski insisted that candles should be put in the golden candlesticks and that they should be set, all flickering and alight, three upon the mantel and four upon the table.
“Just as Ivan and I used to do,” she added with a happy sigh.
Supper was to be cooked in her copper pots and pans and served upon the beautiful blue dishes that made Florence tremble every time she touched one of them, lest she drop it.
It was a memorable meal. A little Indian girl had, that very afternoon, brought in a great salmon and had received for it a sack of potatoes. The baked salmon rested on a blue platter. It was surrounded by golden-brown potatoes, sweet butter and tall heaps of biscuits fresh from the oven.
When this repast was over, the Russian woman sat for a long time staring at the flickering candles and the marvelous blue dishes.
“No,” she murmured at last, “they shall not go. They have been here long. They shall remain forever, all these beautiful things. You all are good. You have been kind to an old woman whom you did not know. I am not a fairy godmother,” she laughed. “I am not God. I am only an old woman, Madam Chicaski. And this was my home. Yes, you shall have all these. They belong here. Even dishes and copper pots may be happy. They will be happy with you.”
Mary heard her every word. Yet she could not believe in their great good fortune. All these beautiful dishes, those rare pieces of copper, the seven golden candlesticks to remain in their humble cabin? Impossible.
Then came another wave of emotion that brought her to her feet.